Noughts And Crosses
by islandbirdies
Summary: He ran to the shore, tripping over the salty blue waves as the sun pierced the horizon. And maybe he did throw up, right there in the water, but he didn't care if anyone knew, and when he'd heard the howls of the others, the slicing of flesh, he ducked under water for long intervals, sometimes breaching the surface already gasping for breath before diving under again.
1. a note

_No Masters or Kings_  
><em> When the Ritual begins<em>  
><em> There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.<em>  
><em>— Hozier, Take Me To Church <em>

_But you can skyrocket away from me _  
><em> And never come back if you find another galaxy <em>  
><em> Far from here with more room to fly <em>  
><em> Just leave me your stardust to remember you by.<em>  
><em>— Gregory And The Hawk, Boats And Birds<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Excerpt from Take Me To Church © Hozier, 2014<strong>  
><strong>Excerpt from Boats And Birds © Gregory And The Hawk, 2006<br>Original characters © William Golding, 1954**  
><strong>Rated T for content<strong>


	2. prelude

_Lights will guide you home..._

This was it. This was the moment.

_"Then he was down, rolling over and over in the warm sand, crouching with arm to ward off, trying to cry for mercy." - William Golding, Lord Of The Flies (pg. 200)_

Sand filled his mouth and for the first time in quite a while, he began to cry. Tears ran hot down his raw, sunburnt cheeks and he let out a howl of terror, though the sand that was collected under his tongue muffled most of the noise. It really was a sorry sight, and a few littluns playing on the beach had to look away as Ralph staggered across the stretch of land, trying desperately to regain his footing as the tribe closed in on him. His heart was racing, and when he first felt the sharp nails of dark-haired Roger on his arms, he let out a squeal and shot his elbow out blindly. In a stroke of luck, he'd gotten a good shot on the sadist's nose, and when the boy howled in pain and stumbled away, pinching the bridge, Ralph saw his chance and took off running again.

He heard the pissed-off growl of his attacker, and soon, Roger gave chase once more. Ralph's sides were stinging in pain, and a cold burn began to crawl from his throat down to his lungs, as though he were running through the cold and not through the humid island air. He cast a glance behind him, saw the placid Roger leading the hunt; Jack and some of the other "loyals" were following close behind. Jack. Did he really want Ralph dead? The very idea of his friend wishing to kill him hurt more than he thought a spear or fist ever could.

He was wrong. When Roger threw down the spear to be picked up later and landed the first blow against his back, he cried out and fell to his knees, sobbing harder. "Roger—"

The boy didn't give him time to speak, and kicked hard. Ralph landed on his face in the sand, swallowing yet another mouthful of the grainy stuff and trying to beg the other to stop.

Roger swung his foot forward, connected it into his spine, and repeated the action until Ralph was crying out loudly with each blow, pushing his face into the dirt, slavering at the mouth. Spit bubbled against his lips and soon the entirety of his face was caked with saliva and rough sand. "Please!" He wailed, wrapping his arms around himself to try and protect his burning ribcage against further assault.

By this time, more had joined in, until the only ones not kicking were Samneric, Maurice, Jack, and the littluns who were scattered along the shore, either playing their childish games or craning their necks to see.

Eric let out a cry and dashed forward as though to make a grab for Ralph, but Sam pulled him back. The quieter of the two, outbursts like this were not part of Eric's nature, and for a moment he looked as though he might turn against Sam, but he calmed and faced his back to the gruelling scene.

Jack hesitated for a moment at the prospect of joining the mob he'd set against the blond-haired boy, but then he let any emotional feelings leave, shrieking a battle cry as he launched into the group, kicking and cursing.

Struggling to sit back up, Ralph took a hard blow to the face, and doubled over again. Seeing his chance, a boy struck out and slammed his foot as hard as he could into Ralph's side, harder than even Roger had so far. A loud pop could be heard, and a piercing cry came from the victim, a tired boy who was now beginning to slip in and out of consciousness.

The whole ordeal was making the observing Maurice physically ill, and at the sound of the cracking bone, he suddenly turned away from the scene, running to the treeline before leaning his hands on his knees and vomiting, tears beginning to stream down his face as he did so. Though he'd trampled sand castles and thrown rocks and sand with Roger, though he'd abandoned Ralph's group to join Jack and help create the tribe, he had never wanted this. Maurice was nothing more than a sheep, an ignorant pawn of society to be played until he could finally open his eyes on his own. Now they were open.

Now they were too late.

As he drifted back, the first thing he noticed was that the tribe's "dance" was finished. Now scattering away from the main point of attention, many of the boys sat or kneeled, breathing hard and wiping sweat from their faces. The sun was beginning to dip a little lower in the sky. Maurice's steps quickened. What would they do, now that Ralph was beaten? Would they let him join the tribe? Or would Jack cast him out as a loner, force him to survive by himself?

Jack and Roger stood near the unconscious boy. Maurice opened his mouth to call out to Jack, but stopped, hesitating and watching. Watching as the redheaded boy beckoned a littlun over. He strained to listen, but couldn't hear what the chief said.

Then, to his horror, Jack produced the hunting dagger and knelt beside Ralph. The littlun, he realized, had been sent to retrieve Roger's spear.

Roger's spear, sharpened at both ends.

Though he didn't think he could stomach it, he raced over. "Jack, wait—" His voice cracked and broke off, and he froze when both the chief and his second-in-command turned to glare.

"What?" The redhead's voice was nasty, angry. Maurice flinched away and shrugged.

"I just… Why kill him? Let's just leave him here, he'll wake up alone and realize he's not welcome back with us. No harm in letting him live, yeah?" Nervously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot and bit his lip.

Roger frowned. "Maurice, you're a bit late there—"

He continued to talk, but the tanned boy had stopped listening, drawing closer with his arms wrapped around himself. A look of horror crossed his face once he'd gotten near enough to realize that Ralph wasn't breathing.

"Oh…"

The tears stung his eyes but he didn't dare to cry in front of the two, lest they decide to go on a murder spree to cleanse the tribe of any weaker boys. He abruptly turned to walk away, but Jack caught him by the ankle before he could go. "Wait."

Maurice couldn't wait. He stood, frozen in fear, as Jack turned the body onto its back. And then he saw the bloody froth at his lips, the splatters of crimson on the sand. The dark flowery bruises along his face and sides. How it darkened, the veins feathering out near his left side. The broken rib had punctured his lung.

His eyes were still open. Oh, God, his eyes were still _fucking_ open! And then Maurice felt like he was about to be sick again, so he yanked his foot back from Jack's grip and _God_, did he run. He ran to the shore, tripping over the salty blue waves as the sun pierced the horizon. And maybe he did throw up, right there in the water, but he didn't care if anyone knew, and when he'd heard the howls of the others, the slicing of flesh, he ducked under water for long intervals, sometimes breaching the surface already gasping for breath before diving under again.

Was it bad, when someone was so obviously dead, to remember their happy moments? Maurice's mama had always taught him to look on the bright side. So that's what the boy did, in those moments in time between breaking the waves for air and pushing back under to avoid those _awful_ sounds. He remembered good things about Ralph.

Having come from two different parts of their Catholic school, Maurice admittedly hadn't really known the blond before the island. He recognised the kid here or there, but they really didn't talk. Maurice was part of the choir and Ralph wasn't, and that was really all there was to it. Between breathing and sinking, he remembered. He remembered the day he'd slipped on a slick rock, skinned his shin badly. Jack wasn't around, but Ralph was, and he leaned in and used his own shirt to stop the blood. It had been nice, and that was the day Maurice stopped harassing the littluns with Roger. To Ralph, it was nothing but a kind gesture, but to the tanned boy, it meant the world. He really hadn't felt loved on the island - no one did - but in that moment, he thought that someone cared.

Back in school, Maurice had fallen out of a tree and landed on his wrist. He didn't want to go to the nurse and have it checked—they'd surely call his parents—but _God, did it hurt…_ Ralph had found him curled up against the schoolyard wall, hand pressed awkwardly to his chest while he tried to hold back his tears. When he assessed that it may have been sprained and that Maurice would have to go to the clinic for his personal safety, the blond had come up with a plan and told the nun that he'd been roughing with the kid and accidentally shoved him to the ground. That was the day Ralph got his only disciplinary mark on his record for "violence against another individual". Sure, Maurice wouldn't have gotten in a ton of trouble at home, but one less mark was everything to a schoolboy.

There were so many other little moments, a side smile, a joke. Before the island, a held-open door or a playful stare-down in the hall. Things which will never happen again. Ever.

In that moment, splashing in and out of the water in steady rhythm, someone wouldn't be able to tell that Maurice was sobbing. The sounds of the waves crashing mixed with the wetness that was _the ocean for crying out loud_—no one could tell in that moment. And so Maurice wept for the end of innocence as one knew it, the darkness of men's heart and the savagery that flooded their veins like a euphoria, and for the fall of a dear friend called Ralph, the only honest and good one in the lot.

The moon was beginning to climb before Maurice came back to the shallow water, feeling the salty spray slap against his calves as he came out. There was a terrible dark red stain in the sand, which he avoided, and soon he was wandering idly, partly looking for the group and partly looking for a place to sleep. The huts had been long abandoned, and he didn't have any interest in climbing the mountain to where the tribe had made its home. Not that night, not as dark as it was.

He would have camped out right on the beach, but something drew him to the trees. A sound could be heard from within the forest, and he grimaced, deciding against his better judgment to follow the noise and scent of blood. Perhaps they were going to bury the body…

Maybe it was the sense of urgency that clung to the thick humid night, maybe it was just paranoia—but something was giving him more speed in his step, more worry on his mind then Maurice thought possible. Bitterly anxious, he only slowed when the soft chanting grew louder, when he could hear the chief's voice above all of the others'; "_Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Bash her in._" A chill hung around him like a mist, and even though it was far from cold he found himself shuddering, rubbing his arms as he stumbled forward through the dense foliage blindly in the dark.

At this point, he'd developed a skull-splitting headache, and Maurice groaned, rubbing his temples as he grew closer, closer… Then he could see the group vaguely through the trees.

As he drew himself from the dark, the circle widened, and then Jack and Roger stood alone in the middle of the group. A skull lay fractured on the ground, the remnants of the pig head that he remembered helping to kill.

Jack said something, slammed something sharp hard into the ground a few times. And then he stepped out of the way.

Maurice stared.

And Ralph stared back.

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><p><strong>Excerpt from Fix You © Coldplay, 2005<br>Excerpt from Lord Of The Flies © William Golding, 1954  
>Original characters © William Golding, 1954<strong>


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